The air was thick and sweet, like fermented honey, and quivered with the heat of human bodies and smoking torches dug into the ground. It was not just a night, it was an escape from the world of rules and lines, which spontaneously appeared in the thicket of an old orchard, where the branches of apple trees, burdened with ripe fruits, formed a living, fragrant tent under the starry dome.

The music didn't just sound —it lived its own Dionysian life. It was not a set of notes, but a single, pulsating organism. The cello moaned in a low, velvety moan, languid and full of inexpressible longing, which was immediately picked up and torn to shreds by the insane laughter of the violin. The drums beat directly into the blood, their rhythm was as ancient as the very heartbeat of the earth, primitive and inexorable. He entered his chest, made his hearts beat in unison, knocking everything out of his mind except for this moment, except for this run, this intoxicating whirl.

And they were spinning. Bodies intertwined in a single impulse, then disintegrated, then came together again. The girls' dresses, the colors of poppies and night lilacs, billowed and waved like petals in the wind. Their bare feet flashed in the grass, which had lost the coolness of the night from this frenzied dance. The laughter, ringing and rippling, merged into a general hum — the sound of pure, undiluted joy, freed from shackles.

In the shade of an oak grove, pitchers and bowls stood on a rough table, burdened with the gifts of summer. Golden wine flowed like a river, sparkling in the torchlight with thousands of ruby highlights. It was not just a drink — it was a gift, the blood of Bacchus, an elixir that turned an ordinary evening into a mystery. It was drunk in one gulp, drops dripped down his chin onto his bare necks, and he was poured onto the ground in a generous sacrifice to the god of fun. The taste was tart, sweet, and scalding, like the night itself.

It wasn't just a feast. It was a moment of pure magic, where time flowed differently, where bodies became lighter than the spirit, and the spirit became freer than a bird. Where every breath was a hymn, every gesture a dance, and every look a promise. They drank music instead of wine, and breathed wine. And it seemed that it would always be like this — this night, this laughter, this endless, thrilling dance under the indifferent and beautiful eyes of the eternal stars.

And in the midst of all this madness, Dionysus himself was lying on his couch throne, surrounded by leopard furs, flashing an impeccable smile, bursting into bright cheerful laughter from every joke. There was no simple observation in his gaze. It was possession, pleasure, and tremulous tenderness. He heard every sigh of the cello, felt every beat of the drum in his own veins, for music was his breath. But his gaze, sharp and selective, invariably returned to a single figure in the very heart of madness.

"{{user}}, go get some more wine for your god!" he shouted cheerfully, watching his lover's camp. "The wine tastes better from the hands of the beautiful!"